


Pool Runnings

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkward Dates, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Dates, Hospitalization, Injury, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Nosebleed, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You feel terrible. Dave is… Dave is great. He’s funny, he’s witty and smart and just… generally a very entertaining person to be around. You’ve been sort of ‘friend-dating’ for a bit and tonight was supposed to be your first real, official date, with hand holding and dinner and kissing and everything and you’d put so much effort into making sure this would be fantastic, except now you’re stuck in the ER and even if you do make it home in time, you’re in no state to go out."</p><p>Or, In Which Eridan Breaks His Face and Gets a Boyfriend Out of the Deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pool Runnings

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the AU prompt: "I’m calling to cancel our date because I’m actually in the ER right now, sorry. …I mean, sure, I guess you can come down here, but… okay…"
> 
> [source: http://notallbees.tumblr.com/post/105994550160/au-scenarios-were-bad-at-dating-edition]

You feel terrible, for multiple reasons- the first of which would be the IV currently digging into your elbow at an awkward angle, throbbing with the quick beat of your heart.

 

The hospital is loud and busy, the ER even more so; the bed you’re lying in, and have been lying in for the thirty minutes now, is stupidly uncomfortable, and any efforts you’ve made to get a little bit of shut-eye have all been for naught. You’re cranky, tired and unhappy and in pain, and you just want to go home but that involves flagging down a nurse and getting release papers and all your efforts thus far have been thwarted by their complete and utter disregard of you. You’re not bleeding out, or overdosing, or hanging around with a kitchen knife stabbed through your brain, after all- you’re fine, and can wait.

 

No, you’re just here with a mangled face, that’s all.

 

Well. Mangled is, perhaps, taking it a bit far. Your nose is broken, slightly crooked to the side even with the rough hands of an orderly wrenching it back into place for you- without the benefit of painkillers, you might add. That and the four inch long cut across your temple are the only ‘mangling’ injuries you can claim to have, besides the bruises. In your defense, Texas is a hot place, and usually there are no puddles around the pool area to be worried about, but, well…

 

You’d managed to slip, and fall, and pretty much break your goddamn face.

 

Perfectly on time for your first date in over three years, because this is just how karma and the world functions for you. Surreptitiously, you dig out your phone, hoping the inattentiveness of the nursing staff continues as you clearly and consciously break the rules. No cells in the ER, after all- but that’s their fault, for leaving you alone and in pain.

 

Your brother had been here for a bit, but he’d taken off, claiming a bad case of the ‘heebie-jeebies’ from being around so many groaning, unhappy people. You can’t find it in you to blame him, even as you dial out a familiar number, your fingers working on autopilot; if it were you in his position, you would have skipped out too.

 

But no, instead, you’re the one lying still and injured and half drugged out of your mind, the potent shroud of morphine making everything slightly better.  It still sucks, though.

 

Ring ring. Ring ring fucking ring, you never understood why the phone companies hadn’t developed a far more pleasant sound to play while waiting for calls to connect like- mmh, like that voice. That’s a nice voice.

 

_“-dan? Danny? Dude, why the hell are you calling me we’re going to be seeing each other in like, an hour.”_

__  
  


Oh. Dave’s voice.

 

“Yeah,” you say, voice nasally and plugged up, and god, you’ve always sounded stupid but it’s even worse now with your nose taped up, “About that.”

 

You feel terrible. Dave is… Dave is great. He’s funny, he’s witty and smart and just… generally a very entertaining person to be around. You’ve been sort of ‘friend-dating’ for a bit and tonight was supposed to be your first real, official date, with hand holding and dinner and kissing and everything and you’d put so much effort into making sure this would be fantastic, except now you’re stuck in the ER and even if you do make it home in time, you’re in no state to go out.

 

“I… can’t make it,” you say, the gaelic thick on your tongue as you slur into the phone, tone lilting, “I’m sorry, I’d seriously go out t’night if I could but I’m… sorta in a bit’uva predicament here an’ I’m gonna be stuck for a while.”

 

There’s silence on the other end of the line and you’re counting ceiling tiles, finger tapping in time with the beep of someone’s heart monitor as you wait.

 

 _“Dude, if you don’t wanna do this, that’s fine,”_ he finally replies, his voice tinny but still Dave’s voice over the speaker, and you’ve never heard him sound like this before but something about his tone just twists you up inside, _“You don’t gotta hedge around makin’ shit up._ ”

 

Making shit up? Like- like he thinks you don’t want to date him, is that what this is about? Oh my god, he’s so dumb. He’s so fucking dumb, and he makes your chest hurt and you really want to hug him but he’s not here and you are irrationally upset about that.

 

“Oh my god you little shit, shut up,” you groan, and your head lolls on the pillows, eyes half shut as the beeping next to you cuts out, the dude getting moved to his own room- lucky bastard, “I wanna go out wit'you. I’m the one who asked you out. I’m just not in any condition t'go anywhere right now.”

 

Right on cue, another guy gets carted into the ER and if you weren’t already dosed the fuck up on some weird chemical combo of awesome, you’d be screaming right along with him. You can smell the alcohol on him from here, and the bones of his hand are sticking out funny- nope, that’s your cue, no fucking way, _you’re_ _done_. You roll right the fuck over, even though the action tugs at your IV in a way that makes your stomach lurch.

 

_“Dude, what the fuck? Are you killing people? Is that why you’re not currently at a restaurant with me? Eridan are you secretly a serial killer.”_

“I’m sort'a stuck in the ER,” you answer back, and right on time you hear yelling and beeping and a whole mess of other shit, and the guy next to you is still drunkenly yelling out unintelligible phrases and you’re starting to get a headache.

 

_“...What?”_

 

“I’m currently in the ER. That’s why I’m not at a restaurant wit'you. Trust me, if I had a choice, I’d be at the restaurant.”

 

There’s a sharp hiss of breath on the other line, but the clicky heels of the nurse rushing past you has stolen your attention; Dave’s voice is just background noise for a moment, until he snaps at you, of course- that startles you out of your daze soon enough.

 

_“-idan goddammit answer me! Are you okay? Why the fuck are you in the ER?”_

Oh no, he sounds worried.

 

“‘M’okay,” you’re quick to assure, blinking some of the lazy exhaustion from your eyes as you give yourself a little shake- that’s a mistake, your head is suddenly killing you, ow. Screaming Fratboy in the bed next to yours isn’t helping either; he’s progressed to whining and crying, and not a single nurse has helped him with his mangled hand yet. Good, he’s an idiot anyways. Probably tried to punch someone in the face- everyone who’s ever been in a fight knows you don’t punch someone in the goddamn face.

 

“Fell,” you mumble, face flushing even though you can’t even see the deadpan expression he manages to pull off flawlessly, even with his shades, “Was swimmin’, slipped on the edge an’ bashed my face. I’m a bit less’n pretty right now.”

 

And yeah, there’s that moment of incredulous silence, and then he’s _sniggering_ at you, the bastard. He’s doing the weird hitched-breath snort-giggle thing he does when he finds something genuinely fucking hilarious, and you can’t even get mad at him for it because, well, it sort of is.

 

“Don’t run by the pool!” he yells, and then falls back into laughter, and you can tell by the rustling and dragging noises that he’s literally rolling around on the bed, the dork.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, though a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, mouth disobeying the command to stay in a pout, as they should, “Laugh it up. You still aren't gonna get yourself some  fancy ass dinner tonight.”

 

His laughter dies off and you wish it hadn’t; you think he sounds so much better than the slurring drunk beside you, or the screaming teenager in front of you who’d apparently tried to skateboard down a flight of stairs. It looks like it didn’t end too well for him.

 

 _“You’re at Seneca, right?_ ” he asks, and you nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t actually see you.

 

“Oh, uh- yeah. Seneca Baptist. T’was the closest one t’home an’ Cronus was panickin’ a bit.”

 

 _“I can imagine,”_ he says, and you just wanna curl up in his voice, just want to wrap it around yourself until you’re buried in dulcet baritone, _“I’ll be over in ten.”_

 

You think you jerk, and you know the noise you make when you jostle the IV is utterly pathetic, but you can’t really help it.

 

“What- No, Da’e,” and wow okay that was a fucking slur if you’d ever heard one, where had your tongue gone? “It’s a goddamn hospital, you don’t gotta come down here, it’s gross as hell an’ filled with screamin’ people an’-“

 

_“And you think I’m just gonna leave you there alone? Hell no. Sit tight, babe, I’ll be there in ten.”_

He hangs up on you. The bastard hangs up on you, and three seconds later the nurse is chiding your drugged up ass for having your phone out and on, and you spend another five minutes giving her a verbal smackdown for being left alone in the fucking ER for almost an hour. She responds to your caterwauling by rolling her eyes, upping your pain meds, and telling you that you have a concussion, thus you’re staying right where you are until a room frees itself up for you.

 

You try to demand AMA release forms and she laughs, and you’re sure that if it wasn’t entirely unprofessional she would have patted you on the head like a particularly belligerent purse dog. She says your brother told us you’d try that and you vow to yourself that the first thing you’re going to do when you see Cronus again is kick him in the fucking shin, because wow, that was a dick move on his part.

 

Minutes tick by.

 

You are alone, surrounded by the ever increasing number of patrons in the ER; you remember, once, that you’d wanted to be a doctor, that you’d wanted to work in a place like this, helping save lives, and you are so, so glad you’d been selfish and changed your mind, because you’d never have survived this disorganized chaos. Nurses bustle to and fro, calling out jargon above your head as they deal with patients with a patience that makes your head spin. You just… lay in bed, for a while, and turn your gaze to the ceiling when their constant action starts to make you motion sick.

 

Something touches your arm, smooth fingers brush over your wrist, but you don’t react for a moment, positive it’s just another nurse adjusting your IV; it’s only when those fingers intertwine with your own, and a hand begins to hold yours, that you look up.

 

“Hey there, moonshine,” he coos, and you’ve never been happier to see Dave’s face, stupid shades and all, "Sorry I'm late."

 

“Hi,” you mumble, smiling, and you’re aware it sits stupidly on your face, smiles always look stupid on your face, but to be honest you couldn’t give less of a shit. Dave is here, and his hand is warm in your own, his face soft and lips tilted up in something akin to a smile, as well, and he’s

perfect and you decide right then and there that you love him.

 

“You weren’t kidding when you said you got smashed up,” he says, and his voice is soft, pitying, as he reaches out and brushes gentle fingers along your cheek; you lean into the touch, chasing after the warmth of his hand, the comfort of contact, and he obliges you by tilting his palm to cup the side of your face, humming softly as he appraises the damage.

 

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, and you nod, letting out a soft whine as your nose throbs in response to the movement, “And on date night, too. Well, I got something that might cheer you up- you just gotta give up my hand, first.”

 

Definitely driving a hard bargain there, but after a moment more just soaking up the affectionate touch, you back away, flopping back down against the pillows with a huff of breath.

 

“Now, I know it ain’t five star restaurant quality,” he says, rummaging around in his bag, “But hey, anything’s better than hospital food.”

 

You watch, lazily, as Dave pulls out two cans and sets them on the side table next to your bed; they’re bright purple, Grape Crush, and still cold, dripping condensation onto the white plastic. Next comes two plastic Disney collectors plates, the kind people collected from McDonald’s in the 90’s; Little Mermaid and Bambi- your respective favorite movies.

 

“Da’e...”

 

“Shh, I’m not done,” he says, pulling out two napkins, which he lays out on either side of the plates; they’re fancily folded into swans, and he’d gone to the trouble to stick googly eyes on them. Your chest aches, your heart melting as you dissolve into a puddle of goo- you can’t believe he’d gone to all this trouble.

 

“And, courtesty of master Chef Strider,” he says, presenting two hot pockets with a flourish- they’re still warm, steaming slightly as he lays them on the plates, and once he’s done he does a little bow, presenting his meal for your approval.

 

“A fine, first class dinner for a fine, first class man,” he finishes, smiling softly; you want to kiss him.

 

You think you’re tearing up, actually.

 

“Oh come on, dude, I didn’t even burn the hot pockets that bad,” he says, cupping your cheek in hand again, thumb rubbing gently underneath your black eye; tears sting the scrapes there, but you can’t help it. He’s so fucking perfect, he really is, and you don’t deserve him but you are so, so happy you have him.

 

You’re a sniffling, gross mess, and you think your nose is bleeding again; one of the paper swans gets sacrificed, and Dave cups the back of your head in hand and sits beside you on the hospital bed, holding the poor thing to your nose as you sob grossly all over him. Luckily, it only takes a few minutes for you to stop being such a disgusting glob of fluids, and when you’re done spewing blood from your nostrils and tears from your eyes, he tilts your head up by the chin and softly, delicately, presses his lips to yours.

 

The kiss is perfect, and if you hadn’t have already been in love with him, this would have brought you around instantly; he’s soft, careful, his hands ever so gentle on your bruised face, but he kisses you like he means it, and your hands clutch his shirt and hold him close, your head tilting sloppily to the side, control shot by pain meds and the concussion you probably have.  It only lasts a moment, but it feels like ages, and when he parts, you’re flushed and almost panting, face redder than brick.

 

“No crying, okay?” he says; you nod stupidly, and he smiles, brushing the last of your tears from your face as he shifts to sit opposite of you.

 

The hot pockets are still warm, and the soda is still cold; he stays with you for almost three hours, talking and laughing and keeping you awake as you wait for the OK to either leave or get transferred to a new room. He touches you, soft and sweet- an arm around your shoulder, a hand twined with yours, fingertips brushing over your cheeks, over your forehead, soft, chaste kisses, the works. You’re gross and bloody and smell like pizza hot pockets and chlorine, but he just shushes you whenever you flop around like an embarrassed fish, and kisses you right on the forehead.

 

It’s so sweet you could die.

 

When they move you from the ER, he follows, and when they get you situated in a room all to yourself, you almost cry with relief; finally, it’s fucking quiet. It’s quiet, and Dave is there, and he sits on the edge of the bed and lets you curl up with your head in his lap, his fingers threading through the white streak in your hair.

 

“So, this date could have gone worse,” he murmurs, voice soft in the near silence of the room; you still have a few monitors attached, and you can hear a bit of the hustle and bustle of the halls outside your door, but inside, here, with Dave, it’s peaceful.

 

“You made it better,” you slur out, one hand gripping his shirt like a child, “Thank you.”

 

He shushes you, kisses your forehead, and tucks the thin hospital blankets around your shoulders, one hand rubbing over your side. It’s… nice. Calming.

 

“I wanna do this again,” he says; you nod sleepily, eyes drooping.

 

“I had fun,” he says, and you’re too tired to agree verbally , but you agree all the same.

 

“I think it would be better if you stayed outta the hospital next time, though” and god, yes, next time. Next time you’d be as careful as you needed to be, because as nice as this is…

 

You’re eagerly looking forward to an actual date that doesn't involve you being high the whole time.

  
  



End file.
